Paul Doherty - The Treason of the Ghosts

He smiled. ‘Sir Hugh is correct. I hid my doubts; I recalled the evidence: the jury was responsible. Above all, the murders had ended.’ He paused, wetting his lips.

Corbett went over, half filled a cup of wine and brought it back. Sir Louis thanked him with his eyes.

‘Oh, I made my own enquiries. I found out how Molkyn had acted the bully in the jury room. I was deeply suspicious about Furrell’s disappearance. I felt sorry for Sorrel and for you, Maurice. I did my best. I tried to be the father I had so brusquely removed from your life.’ He cradled the cup. ‘But when those murders began again I knew I was wrong. Somebody had come into my courtroom. I was no more than a puppet, a seal for the real killer’s wickedness. He and the rest had used the law to send an innocent man to the gallows.’ He clicked his tongue. ‘I felt a fool. I realised why Molkyn would sometimes leer at me or Deverell scurry away like the rat he was. I knew the King would have to intervene. I encouraged Sir Maurice to write those letters but I wondered what would happen if they escaped justice. The rest, Sir Hugh, is as you’ve said. In my view I carried out lawful execution: Molkyn, Thorkle and Deverell were the ones I held responsible. I might not trap the true killer but I am a King’s justice: perjury and bribery are capital offences. I learnt about all their habits: Molkyn’s drinking, Thorkle in the threshing shed away from his hot-eyed wife and furtive Deverell, with his Judas squint.’

‘And Blidscote?’ Corbett asked.

‘Oh yes, our fat, corrupt bailiff. It was no coincidence that Molkyn and Thorkle were selected. He was as guilty as they were. I invited him to meet me near the river Swaile. I wanted to see his fat face crease in terror. I didn’t want him scurrying away: his body, weighted with rocks, still lies there.’ Tressilyian put the wine cup down on the floor. ‘I have no regrets, Corbett. None whatsoever.’

‘Why didn’t you wait for me?’ Corbett asked.

‘To be honest, Sir Hugh, I didn’t know how keen-witted you were. I didn’t want them to escape with their lies. It was my court they had mocked, not yours. I couldn’t see them escape. I am sorry about the lies but I wanted to muddy the waters so as to have time to finish the task. Deverell in particular, was difficult to hunt. Despite his protestations in court, he was not a man to go wandering around at night.’ He shrugged. ‘What more can I say? What is there to say?’

Sir Hugh rose and touched him on the shoulder. ‘Sir Louis Tressilyian, I arrest you in the name of the King for murder! You will be taken to London and lodged at a suitable place and, at a time appointed by the Crown, tried for your life.’ Corbett held his gaze. ‘You expected this, didn’t you?’

‘I had heard of you.’ Tressilyian smiled faintly. ‘As the days went on, I knew it would only be a matter of time, but the real assassin. .?’ He spat the words out.

‘Oh, he’ll be caught. The souls of those he murdered stand before God’s court and demand justice.’

‘You see yourself as one of the Children of the Light?’ Sir Louis taunted.

‘No, sir, I don’t.’ Corbett fastened his sword belt around him. ‘But I work for them. Ranulf, Chapeleys can stay with Sir Louis: he is to be lodged in one of the tavern chambers. The door is to be locked and guarded by Chanson.’

‘I won’t escape,’ Sir Louis declared. ‘You have my word. Nor will I do anything feckless. You can suspect what my defence is going to be, Corbett? I am a royal judge. Perjury and murder were committed in my court. I carried out the King’s justice.’

Corbett paused at the door.

‘Not even the King’s justice, Sir Louis, is above the law.’

‘Where are you going?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Why, to the church. Join me there, Ranulf. I have a passion for bell ropes and how they work.’

Corbett closed the door behind him and went down the stairs. The market square was now busy, the noise raucous. Chapmen and apprentices roared their prices, enticing customers with Bruges cloth, Spanish leather, fruits brought in by the traders from London, jewellery and ornaments from Ipswich. The relic-seller joined in the shouting, offering a sealed cup which he maintained contained the last breath of St George. Corbett pushed his way through, knocking aside hands and shaking his head as traders blocked his path, offering him a new belt, riding boots or gilt spurs. At last he was free. Grasping the hilt of his sword, he made his way up to the church. He paused at Elizabeth’s grave and noticed the white rose laid on the freshly dug earth.

‘Help me,’ Corbett whispered.

He walked through the coffin door. Candles were lit in the sanctuary but the place was empty. Swirls of incense from the morning Mass curled and sweetened the air. He went down to the belfry, opened the door and went in. For a while he stood examining the heavy ropes and the weights placed on the end.

‘If I knew who the patron saint of bell-ringers was,’ Corbett murmured, ‘I’d pray to him.’

He took one bell rope, placed it deep into the sloping windowledge and walked back into the church, closing the door behind him. He sat for a while and prayed. He didn’t want to do anything but wait to see if his theory worked. He went up to the Lady Chapel, lit a candle and knelt on the cushioned prie-dieu, staring up at the face of the statue.

‘You remind me of Maeve,’ Corbett whispered.

He felt guilty at such distraction, crossed himself and returned to the back of the church. The coffin door opened. A parishioner came in, an old woman who lit a candle, said a prayer and left. Corbett grew anxious. He was about to return to the belfry when the bell clanged and his heart leapt.

‘I thought as much,’ he murmured and flung the door open.

The rope bearing the lead weight had slipped off the window recess and, falling, had created a slight tremor, which sent the bells clanging. Corbett lifted the rope up again and placed it further up the windowsill. He stood and watched. The weight, made of copper or brass, was shiny and smooth. He noticed how it began to slip very slowly along the ledge.

‘And the further up I put it,’ Corbett told himself, ‘the more time it will take.’ Now, he thought, all I’ve got to do is wait.

He sat on the belfry steps and wondered where Ranulf was. The coffin door opened. Footsteps echoed along the nave. The door was flung open and Burghesh came in.

‘What on earth is happening?’ he exclaimed. ‘Why is the bell ringing?’

He glimpsed the bell rope and its weight in the window recess. He opened his mouth and stepped back.

‘What are you doing, Sir Hugh?’

‘I wondered,’ Corbett replied, ‘how the church bells could be rung when no one was up here? Last night when Curate Robert died, nobody was in this church. Do you remember? We all were sitting at the Guildhall feeding our faces, revelling in the civic wealth of Melford. Then the church bell rang. Up you jumped, Master Burghesh, like a hare in spring, and off you ran to discover what caused it. Some time later you come hastening back, all a-bother: Curate Robert has hanged himself for all to see. No sign of violence, no evidence that someone had hanged him. Moreover, up the cuff of his sleeve was a scrap of parchment, a quotation from the Psalms about his sin always being before him. To all intents and purposes, Curate Robert must have been the slayer of those young women. Unable to confront his guilt, or fearful of being caught, he seized the opportunity, when the church was deserted, to come into this belfry and hang himself.’

‘That’s what happened,’ Burghesh stammered.

Corbett leant his elbows on his knees and smiled back.

‘That’s not true, Master Burghesh. First, why did you leave the Guildhall? Because a bell tolled? Couldn’t Curate Robert deal with that and, if there was anything wrong, travel the short distance to the Guildhall to inform Parson Grimstone or yourself?’